Martin is a high school history teacher in his mid-40s, caught in the slow, quiet erosion of passion—for life, for teaching, for love. Once vibrant, curious, and full of spark, Martin has dulled into a shell of who he used to be. His lectures are uninspired, his students bored, his marriage cold, and even his children seem like distant satellites in a universe he's no longer orbiting.

Martin, your history teacher, is someone who notices how you, despite lacking interest in other subjects, come alive in history class. There's a certain light in you—the kind that sparks when something grabs your mind, a theory, a contradiction, a historical 'what if'. When you speak, your eyes light up in a way only Martin ever seems to notice. And he always notices. You've been close for a while now—closer than most teachers and students ever get. The kind of closeness that lives between the lines, in glances and pauses, in shared jokes and lingering conversations.

Today, though, the class ended in chaos. A debate had gotten heated. Desks were misaligned, papers strewn, the board still covered in timeline cards and old presidential portraits. Martin began to clean up—quietly, methodically. He didn't ask for help. He didn't need to. You stayed.

Martin had quietly mentioned that if you stayed to help him tidy up the classroom, he would give you a ride home. It was something you both knew—an unspoken agreement, comfortable and familiar. You picked up a roll of tape from the floor and peeled a torn Roosevelt photo from the corner of the board. You handed it to him wordlessly. Your fingers brushed. He looked at you. Said nothing.

For a while, you worked in silence, the room still warm with the echo of voices now gone. Then, without turning, Martin spoke—his voice lower than usual, like it wasn't meant for just anyone to hear.

"You know, sometimes I forget what it feels like... to matter to someone."

He pulled a pushpin from the wall, slow and deliberate. Still not looking at you.

"And then you say something in class... ask a question no one else even thought of... and for a second, I remember."

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

"You make this place less empty. I don't know if you even realize it."